


out of the woods

by TinyBeautifulTales (MikeandHarveyTime)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 12:58:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6805645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MikeandHarveyTime/pseuds/TinyBeautifulTales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the past and the future merge to meet us here. what luck. what a fucking curse. </p><p>(or, a haylor-era fic where harry is a little bit more than human.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	out of the woods

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rainbowninja167](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowninja167/gifts).



> hey :) i hope that this is alright. i know that it is probably not what you were expecting from this fic exchange, and i know that my aversion to capital letters can be kinda hard for some people, BUT i hope that you'll like this. this is my baby. it took a ton of time, and it was surprisingly heavy to write. i just. i hope that it will make you happy. it does end in a way that is meant to be looking up. 
> 
> (pre-disclaimer-disclaimer: some of the chronology may not be entirely correct. please bear with me?) 
> 
> obviously, the title is from taylor swift's song of the same name. the first part of the summary is by warsan shire, but was used by beyonce in lemonade. 
> 
> enjoy :)

the day before mohegan sun, harry comes back to the hotel and disappears for two hours. louis can do nothing but hold tight to the shaking line of his spine and scrabble at harry’s jittering arms in a way that feels barely contained, transparent and frantic. the place where harry’s body is lying sinks the bed a bit: the jut of his hipbone, the anxious twitch of his legs as they shift invisibly, the indent his head makes on the pillow and the nearly imperceptible feathery ticklishness of his hair against louis’ shoulder and neck. louis doesn’t say anything because his voice is shaking, even caught up in the cradle of his throat. he feels impossibly young, scared, the electricity of fear crackling over his skin even as harry snuffles against his throat.

 

the longest harry’s ever been gone is a half an hour. louis tries not to let the time startle him: just counts the number of times each of their phones  _ buzz  _ and sputter against the table, the lull of harry’s huffed breaths, the up and down of his hand over harry’s spine. their hotel room feels a world away from all of the bullshit they deal with on a daily basis; their own ship in the tossing ocean they constantly inhabit. the panic banging on his chest isn’t going to ruin that now. he knows the boys must be worried. if zayn or niall or liam had to do something this terrifying, louis would be worried too. that doesn’t mean that he has to answer them now. they’ve made it clear: when things get bad, their relationship has to come before the boys’ concerns.

 

harry’s hand, as usual, is the first thing back. the weight on louis’ hip doesn’t change. at first, it’d taken louis a long time to get used to: the way his hand looked against nothing but the firmness of harry’s body under his touch, the way the milkiness of harry’s skin fades back in, the careful flexing and stretching, everything a mere suggestion until his skin is back, the dark  _ l  _ louis drew on the center of his palm. they’re both watching harry’s hand, his arm, his shoulder, breathing too loudly within the silence of their bedroom. everything feels like a very early winter morning, like the sun is shining too brightly on them.

 

it’s been so, so long since harry has disappeared.

 

“come back to me,” louis whispers, tracing a hand up harry’s arm, “come back to me, pretty boy.”

 

broad shoulders, his collarbones, the pale of harry’s throat all fade back in gradually, go from diluted milk to tangible skin and bone under his white tee shirt. harry’s beginning to move more firmly against their sheets, which is always the moment when louis feels like he can breathe a bit more easily. every time harry begins to disappear there’s a part of louis that wonders whether or not he’ll come back. when he told anne that, she smiled sadly and touched his hand, whispered, “i wonder if he doesn’t want to, sometimes, but he always comes back.” louis can only squeeze his eyes shut and wish frantically for harry, for harry’s skin, for harry’s wide green eyes.

 

when louis feels brave enough to glance down, harry is nearly entirely visible again. he’s watching his own anxiously twitching feet come back, blue jeans and white socks, the pale delicate skin of his ankles and the arches of his feet that louis can never resist kissing. harry is still ghostly pale against his white henley, but louis doesn’t worry about that.

 

the first time he moves his hand from harry’s hip, harry inhales shakily, like there is too much air and not enough air, all at the same time, “my darling,” louis murmurs.

 

“how long was i--?”

 

louis strokes down the long, jittering line of harry’s spine. this is the longest that harry has ever been gone, and louis feels like he could be shaking too. there is no way to tell harry something that will make him less fearful. he’s trembling against louis, warm and unsure as he stretches to test his limbs. louis has always wondered what that feels like: switching from something solid to something entirely different, something infinitely more incomprehensible.

 

“it feels like it--” harry’s throat is sticky with misuse, “like it was a long time.”

 

pressing his mouth to the deep furrows on harry’s forehead, louis tries to center himself, “it was,” he eventually whispers.

 

“lou-- i didn’t mean to, i--”

 

“you’re alright,” louis whispers, a gentling hand on harry’s flank, “you’re alright.”

 

harry looks so, so unbearably young as he clumsily gets onto his knees. he’s not used to his whole body after he’s been gone for so long: his hands flutter over louis’ body before settling on his neck, his knees knock lightly against louis’ ribs when he sinks onto his waist, his smile is guileless when louis immediately catches his thighs to steady him. harry leans forward, some kind of gravitational pull, to nuzzle his nose against louis’.

 

there is nothing to say. louis can only hold him tighter and hope and hope that things are okay.

 

**

 

between mohegan sun, madison square garden, and harry’s impending stunt, things feel tense between them. they arrive at the venue to rehearse and, almost immediately, everyone is splitting off to do their own thing. liam and niall like to scope out the stage and the seating areas from the highest points. it’s an anxious habit that makes louis’ heart swell in his chest. zayn lies out on the stage, his eyes closing and his phone resting against his chest. 

 

harry has been irritable all day. when they arrive at the venue, he slides out of the van with his face in his phone and makes his way backstage to put on his workout gear. louis sinks into a spot on the stage not far away from zayn’s curled fingers. he doesn’t like to fight with harry when he gets like this, doesn’t want to do something that’ll make things more precarious than they already are. their home feels very, very far away. 

 

the crew is bustling around them, setting up microphones and instrument equipment, when harry comes out of the backstage area in his little shorts. his eyebrows are furrowed together, his mouth set in a stubborn pout. he doesn’t spare a glance at louis before he’s taking off to do laps around the arena. louis pulls his legs up to his chest to ward off the strange, aimless sadness in his tummy. 

 

harry runs like he’s angry about something: all too heavy, stomping steps, and the flex and shift of his back muscles. the sun looks good on his chest. he’s been spending time with lux to prolong actually  _ talking _ about taylor, but louis lets him. harry looks bronzed, when he spends time in the sun, after his sunburn fades, and louis loves the soft give of his hips where tan fades to pale and his inner thighs, white and sensitive. 

 

louis is watching him, watching his repeated circles, watching him come back closer to the stage, sweaty and reddened, when he yells: 

 

“bet you couldn’t carry me all the way up the stairs on your back,” it’s a cheap trick, baiting harry with a dare. 

 

harry stops, “bet i could.” 

 

“bet you’d drop me,” louis is curled up in the small, soft way that harry likes, his shirt slipping up to show the downy center of his lower back. harry can’t decide where he wants to look. they watch each other for long moments before louis says, “dare you.” 

 

harry isn’t impressed. he turns, pouting, to present his broad back to louis. even as louis scoots across the stage, refusing to stand, he knows that harry won’t drop him. it’s too hard, when they spend so much time pretending, to keep straight when they’re safe, when they don’t have to pretend. louis doesn’t care who sees him jostle onto harry’s back or who watches harry tighten his hands around louis’ thighs, his thumb working back and forth to soothe, even as he begins to run. 

 

louis doesn’t watch: just feels the rocking of harry’s steps up the stairs and breathes in the warm, sweat- scent of his neck. he’s louis’ boy, this strong, golden boy who has been blown into something bigger than life by people who don’t know him. the person running up the stairs, with sweat beading along his hairline, is someone who louis knows. someone who louis can hold. 

 

as they go higher, things get darker, the noise gets farther away. it feels like sneaking off to abandoned corners of venues to make out when they were on the xfactor, something bright and frustrating sparking between them that neither one of them could contain. 

 

when they get to the top, harry lets him off his back before settling, starfished, on the ground. everything is quiet, as louis curls into the space between harry’s outstretched arm and the warmth of his side. they are not famous, here. they are louis and harry and, for the first time in days, they don’t have one of ben’s cameras shoved in their faces. 

 

harry is staring at him. he’s been staring for years, and louis knows the heat of his gaze, the way he becomes single-minded. 

 

“i think,” louis inches his hand closer to the expanse of harry’s side, “we should paint a wall red. in our kitchen.” 

 

“you  _ what?”  _

 

louis levels an unimpressed look at harry before continuing, flickering at the fringe that is lying limp on his forehead, “that wall across from the big windows that gemma is convinced has to be an accent wall. i’ve been thinking about it, and i--”

 

harry makes a small, wounded noise, “lou--” 

 

“red would look so good with all of that-- big, leather furniture you  _ insist--” _

 

“you like that furniture.” 

 

“i do--” 

 

harry’s fingers against his chin make him still, silent. louis is suddenly unsure: did he go too far? harry prefers to keep their home life and their stunts separate, and louis knows that, but it seemed like a good way to give harry something to think about beyond this. louis understands not being able to see past the stunt, past pretending. harry’s thumb is working across the jut of louis’ cheekbone. 

 

“you mean everything to me,” harry’s voice is the kind of too honest he gets when he’s overwhelmed, “louis, you’re-- you’re everything.” his clumsy fingers fall on louis’ lips, like a seal or a brand. sometimes, when he hasn’t kissed harry in too long, louis’ll make a scene: running away or stealing a car or throwing an apple at liam, just for the indulgent way harry will corner him, the petulant way he’ll pout when they stop kissing. 

 

louis’ voice shakes, but he manages, “don’t you dare disappear on me,” before harry is kissing him, a hand opened over the sides of their faces so no one can see their lips. 

 

** 

 

they never have time to wake up slowly. mornings when they work are spent bumping into each other, stumbling into skinny jeans or joggers, handling hot tea as carefully as possible, and kisses as they leave their car. when they are working, louis takes comfort in very few things. there is always pressure. today, watching a familiar, sleepy-eyed boy blink at him from across the bed, louis feels miles calmer. 

 

in new york’s muzzy sunlight, it is easy to lean over to the bedside table and silence their phones. it is easy to ruck the covers down past his hips and traipse across the warm space between his flank and harry’s, to swing a leg over harry’s bony hips and the interested jut of his cock. 

 

drowsily affectionate, harry’s hands come up to still his hips. louis loves that that is his instinctual reaction, that holding louis close and making sure he is safe is the first thing that harry can think of to do. he’s so solid in the morning light, so present that it makes louis’ chest twinge as he finds purchase in the sensitive hair which has matted at the nape of harry’s neck. 

 

“good mornin’, sleepy boy,” louis rubs his thumb on the sensitive coil of muscle that always holds all of harry’s tension. his back has no chance against his posture, and louis is intimately familiar with the way harry folds himself up so tightly when he’s anxious. under his soft touches, harry wakes up slowly. 

 

heavy, large hands sweeping down to cradle louis’ bum, harry grins, bright and dopey, “mornin’.” 

 

louis can do nothing to quell the happiness welling in his chest, and he doesn’t try. nearly overcome with affection, he leans forward to nuzzle at harry’s nose, smiling in response to the fingers exploring his inner thighs, “you’re up to somethin’,” he breathes into the space between their mouths. 

 

harry’s hands settle back on his bum, “am not,” but the mischievous smile nearly slitting his eyes in happiness says something else. 

 

shaking his head, louis presses a kiss to harry’s forehead, “wanna.” 

 

harry moves his hands to cover the smooth skin of louis’ thighs, warm and comforting. one of the best things about harry is how he cares for louis, how he lets louis’ moods spin out on their own, “do we have time?” 

 

turning his head into the fragrant juncture of harry’s wrist, louis nods, “silenced our phones.” 

 

big, big hands work up the splay of louis’ thighs. harry absolutely refuses to look away from the thick line of louis’ cock and the way that he fights to splay his thighs further and further, until the warm inner tendons are chorded out of his skin, harry’s soft thumbs stroking them. louis shivers at the intensity of harry’s gaze even as happiness bubbles in his chest. this, being close, feels so much better than the way yesterday was. for a brief moment, as he’s leaning forward to the part of harry’s slick mouth, louis thinks that things could be okay. they kiss like they’re in uni and reckless, like they could spend days in bed learning the clumsy language of mouths and tongues and feelings. 

 

“do we have lube?” harry whispers when their lips part. as they kissed, he’s bundled louis closer to his chest with hands on his lower back, “wanna open you up.” 

 

louis nods at the end table, “what makes you think i’ll let you open me up?” only half paying attention to the stretch of harry’s body as he reaches for the lube, louis directs his attention to the bare skin pulled across harry’s collarbones, the last few weeks of this pale bareness. attaching his teeth to the right side of harry’s neck makes harry start, fumbling the lube against his lower back, a too sharp inhale into the crown of his hair. he’s planning birds here, two swallows.  _ they mate for life, lou.  _

 

“you’re distracting me,” harry whispers gently as he runs a lube slick finger over louis’ rim, “stop that.” 

 

louis meets harry’s wide eyes and pulls his lips into a playful snarl, “you’re distracting  _ me.” _

 

finally, a single lube slick finger slips past his opening, sure and strong. louis exhales, all of the tension in his body draining as he sags against harry’s chest. when harry fingers him, louis feels like he can cut all of his own strings and disappear, like harry does, until they’re one person. body warm and full, full, full, louis mouths at harry’s pecs, at the peaks of his nipples until they’re pinked up and spit slick, until louis’ lips feel worn and softened, blurred at the edges. 

 

“c’mere,” harry’s got a coaxing hand on the nape of his neck and a second finger nudging at his hole. 

 

feeling nearly drugged, louis brings his head up. 

 

“my beautiful boy.” 

 

louis could burn up in harry’s gaze, could become something too hot to touch if he let himself. instead, chasing the slick part of harry’s pouty lips, he makes a shuddery noise that has harry hefting him up his chest, pressing their mouths together. louis  _ loves  _ this boy, loves him more than he knows how to say or sing or show. winding a hand in harry’s hair as they kiss, louis murmurs, “need you,” into harry’s lips. 

 

harry loves when louis gets like this, he’s whispered, loves when he begins to feel small, like he could let himself be protected for a moment. against louis’ back, he can feel the way that harry moves the sheets off of his own legs, steepling his legs into somewhere for louis to rest his back against, if he needs to. 

 

“i know,” harry scissors his fingers in a way that has louis closing his eyes and fighting the urge to moan too loudly, “i know you do.” 

 

harry’s careful when he begins to enter louis: keeps a hand on his lower back; kisses at the tip of his nose; the ripples that form in his forehead when the head of his cock proves to be a stretch, as it always does; presses a shielding, comforting hand to the place where they’re connected as soon as he’s fully in, louis collapsed against his chest. louis can only seek out the warm place under harry’s neck and nuzzle at his pulse, at the underside of his jaw. 

 

“never seen anyone so beautiful,” harry says as he begins to thrust. the words come out more grunted than anything, but louis still melts into it. there are very few things he loves more than listening to harry’s voice, especially when he gets like this, private and in love and entirely louis’. 

 

being bounced on harry’s cock, big hands on his hips and thighs, the way that harry never stops touching where they’re connected, the sound of harry’s breaking moans in his ears, it all works louis into the same warm place where he can’t even think about the next few days. taylor is as distant as she’s ever been. 

 

louis allows himself this moment, this warm pocket of protection where only he and harry exist. 

 

** 

 

around noon, they share a joint. louis doesn’t know what they’re all worried about more, whether their impending stunts or madison square garden is what is making liam’s fingers shake when he inhales. they’ve fallen into a kind of contemplative silence. for louis, it is easier to sit silently and watch each of his boys go hazy with grey smoke, watch as they wilt back against the bed, instead of trying to talk them all out of their nervousness. all of their usual fizzy, unstoppable energy has stripped them bare. 

 

harry takes the joint carefully from zayn. he is tilted back into louis’ arms, the line of his pale neck arching as he takes a long pull. harry has gotten better at smoking. they all have. somehow, the hotel room beginning to reek of weed, louis feels like they’ve lost something to that, like they should’ve been smoking bowls in university, not in a hotel room while they wait for a ride to a concert they’re half dreading.  cloudy, grey smoke leaving his mouth in a huff of air, harry hands the joint off to louis. 

louis takes the joint before he can think about it, keeping an arm tight around harry’s torso. 

 

niall is the one to break the silence, “fucking hell, yeah?” 

 

liam’s laugh comes out smoky and slow, “didn’t think it would be like this.” 

 

zayn, always more cynical than the rest of them, shakes his head. he’s reaching out for the joint again, lazy, “‘ere’s to being famous, boys.” 

 

harry is tense within his arms. louis knows that harry and zayn handle things differently, think about being ‘famous’ differently. it is unavoidable that louis feel caught between this person who needs him so much and harry. that doesn’t make it any easier. harry’s grip on his arm is white knuckled, both of his hands around louis’ forearm, a grip that hasn’t loosened in years.

 

“we made it, though, didn’t we?”  

 

from his place in louis’ lap, harry nods, “doesn’t feel real.” 

 

these hazy, blank stretches of day between the chaos stopped feeling real a long time ago, and with the cameras constantly in their faces for the movie, things feel more claustrophobic than normal. louis noses into the hair behind harry’s ear while he worries about the four boys spread across the bed around him. niall is having panic attacks more frequently now, and liam was drunk when he got off the flight in nyc, slurring about danielle. zayn has never been with them one hundred percent. they all know it. as if he senses what louis is thinking about, harry’s fingers tighten around his arm in a light squeeze. they’re all hanging by the thinnest of spun threads. one wrong move, and it could all go down around them. 

 

despite the feeling of the world closing in around them, mohegan sun is incredible. nothing ever feels as good as getting on stage with his boys. they glow, it feels like, too big for their skins. haloed under the stage lights, nothing can touch them. 

 

** 

 

paul has agreed not to bother them until their parents show up today. he’s seemed to sense that all of their anxiety is ratcheting up into a fever pitch as their impending stunts begin arriving. when he thinks that harry and louis aren’t listening, he’s been on the phone with taylor’s people. louis tries not to feel betrayed by that and fails. of all of the people that modest has placed around them, paul should be on their side, on his and harry’s side.  harry is being a good sport about it. cautiously optimistic, he thinks they can talk about music, that she will give him pointers. 

 

louis kisses his cheek and says, “maybe, babe.” 

 

in the wake of their first mohegan sun concert, everything feels more somber. harry is propped up beside louis in their bed, his eyes narrowed at a book, and the rest of the boys haven’t even texted this morning. it could be home, if louis closed his eyes. 

 

“stop squinting,” louis whispers eventually, a hand on harry’s slim thigh, “you’ll hurt your eyes.” it is a placeholder for all of the things that he should say, and they both know it. 

 

harry’s hand finds the nape of his neck, tender and soothing, “where are your glasses?” 

 

when held up against the feelings churning in louis’ chest, harry’s outward calm makes him smart like he’s been slapped. it feels like harry should be reacting more, reacting in a way that is made visible. without his conscious permission, louis feels his entire body close up: he wraps his arms around his chest, shuts his eyes, completely scoots away from the warm imprint of his and harry’s bodies in the center of the bed.

 

with his eyes closed, louis measures time by the traitorously loud  _ thump  _ of his own heart. too much time has passed for this conversation to be easy, and their relationship is too long standing, too hard fought for this to be anything other than something that hurts. louis always knew that there would come a time when his own stunt wasn’t worth enough anymore. eleanor is probably getting off a plane right now, probably thumbing at the ends of her hair as she climbs into a car, and all louis can think about is taylor swift, looming so impossibly large in his future. 

 

“d’you want to talk about this?” harry’s fingers come into contact with the dip of his waist, tentative. 

 

louis wonders, guiltily, whether or not harry is entirely here, whether or not he’s disappearing even as he asks louis to talk to him. when louis has counted to three and opened his eyes, he’s met by a boy who is almost entirely present, except for the ghostly touch curled around his hip. harry is looking at the place where his fingers visibly indent louis’ hip. louis reaches down for the hand that he can’t see, the pale fingers he can’t measure against his own skin. 

 

quietly, louis asks, “what if we can’t do it?” 

 

“do what?” harry’s hair is fluffy against the pillow. he’s been talking about growing it out, to be actually long, and louis feels like his entire chest will come loose if he isn’t there to see that, to see harry do that for himself. 

 

“what if everything goes wrong?” voiced aloud, it sounds silly. they’ve been through situations that make taylor swift look like a tiny kitten with claws that need clipping. still, the thoughts crowd in louis’ head until he can’t breathe, sometimes. the fear that harry will disappear for so long that everyone will find out, the fear that this will be the thing that finally proves to be too much for them to handle, the fear that simon cowell will finally win. louis doesn’t want to lose the person he plans on marrying. “what if--” 

 

harry, hand still not visible, touches at his chin, “what if we’re just fine?” 

 

louis sniffles, abrupt and embarrassing. the tears building behind his eyes feel like they’ve been brewing since the moment simon approached them about taylor, since the first short, nearly silent discussion they had, harry’s hand disappearing in his. 

 

“don’t cry,” harry whispers, “i can’t watch you cry.” 

 

louis turns his blotchy face into the pillow in an effort to try to pull himself together. he knows that crying is useless, but it feels like he’s been backed into a corner and bested by someone who doesn’t care about them. no amount of time spent on the phone with his mum will change what’s going to happen. no lunches with anne, no dinners spent with robin, no parties at their home; none of it will change taylor swift coming into their life. in an attempt to pull himself together, louis brings a hand up to his eyes to touch at the wet, warm places underneath. 

 

“d’you remember when we bought the house in holmes chapel?” with a hand cushioned under his head and a small smile on his face, harry looks young and unafraid. louis nearly loses his breath just looking at him. “that first night we were there, and you couldn’t sleep,” harry chuckles, little crinkles of happiness accenting the bags under his eyes, “so you got up at arse o’clock in the morning for tea, and i remember waking up to an empty bed and going downstairs.” 

 

louis remembers that night like someone had tattooed it on his arm. nothing could’ve stopped the way he felt, being in their  _ home,  _ the house they picked together and bought together. he remembers the wave of warmth that had crested in his chest when he heard the fumbling, sleepy way that harry wandered into the living room. the way that he’d felt sheltered from every person shouting at them to move out of their penthouse in london, at all of the people who told them to love quieter. 

 

“that was it for me,” harry whispers, voice gone softer, “i couldn’t imagine spending my life with any other person. i  _ can’t.  _ you’re my boy, lou, forever.” 

 

something bright begins to glow in louis’ chest, even as he buries his face back in the pillow. this time, harry stops him with a thumb against his lower lip. 

 

“all of this extra--” harry’s paw of a hand waves around the room, “ _ bullshit  _ is just part of the job.” 

 

as always, louis feels the ever present gap between harry styles and his boy. there are millions of people who think they know the person lying across from louis. it makes his heart expand and contract, phantom sadness and radiant happiness, that they will never know this person. louis reaches out with a trembling hand to push harry’s curls back off of his forehead, “i didn’t want you to have to do this.” 

 

harry’s lips tilt into a small smile, “lou.” 

 

“haz.” 

 

“we’re gonna be okay,” clumsy, calloused hands come to frame louis’ face, “we’re gonna be okay.” 

 

that night, their performance glows in the center of louis’ chest. he can nearly believe it, watching liam and zayn and niall bump around the stage, watching harry scream out the lyrics to songs while the audience is mesmerized. they’re gold. nothing can hurt them here. 

 

**

 

harry hasn’t stopped playing with his hair since they sat down across from their mums. it’s late, after their concert, after sitting in front of ben’s camera, after waiting for the restaurant to close to accomodate their secrets. louis’d felt like he should apologize, when he walked in with harry’s hand on the center of his back. 

 

now, sitting across from their worried mums, he feels even more like he should apologize. anne has been studiously avoiding talking about taylor. louis can feel her heavy gaze on harry’s broad shoulders, on the way he’s keeping his left hand under the table to hide the fact that it isn’t entirely visible. jay had known, just from looking into his tired eyes, that things were catapulting downhill faster than louis could catch them. regardless of the shadow cast over their dinner, it feels good to sit down with people who know and care about them.

 

louis is determinedly drinking his white wine, harry’s invisible grip on his thigh, when a waitress brings them their food. harry excuses himself to go to the bathroom while everyone is shuffling around and making space on the table for food. louis watches the tense set of his shoulders as he walks away and wants, desperately, for things to be different, for things to be better for them. 

 

his salad is laying in front of him, and all louis can do is watch the flickering of the candle as his mum dips a spoon into her soup. the fear and sadness crowd his throat without harry near him. it all just feels  _ wrong.  _

 

“love,” jay says, when the silence has become weighted. her familiar hand finds louis’ against the white tablecloth, “are we going to talk about it?” 

 

louis imagines, if he felt strong enough to look up, he would find anne’s gaze heavy on him too, “harry and i,” he has to swallow before he can grit the words out, “we talked about it. we did.” 

 

“i trust you, my love,” his mum’s voice is low under the sounds of the kitchen and the deceptively calming music filtering into the room through the speakers, “i just-- i worry, you know. it’s my job, yeah?” 

 

stubborn tears trailing down his own cheeks, louis looks up into a pair of watery, blue eyes. his mum’s warm, worn laugh lines have turned into parenthesis that emphasis her concern. seated beside jay, touching her wrist, anne is no better. she has a hand in the ends of her hair, just like harry does when he gets nervous, and she is blinking against the dampness in her own eyes. louis’ chest feels like it may give in under the weight of this. 

 

“we’re going to be okay,” louis whispers. his hands are trembling, his lips feel like they’re trembling, but he repeats, “we’re going to be okay.” 

 

they sit, silently connected, until harry’s tired footsteps make their way back into the restaurant. anne turns to him like a lighthouse drawn to lost sailors, her soft eyes falling to his hands. louis knows the relief that he watches bloom across her face. they don’t talk about harry’s disappearing act, but it still sits in the middle of the table, curled around the candle while louis watches harry’s pigeon toes, his sheepish smile. 

 

“didn’t realize how tired i was until i sat down,” it’s a testament to harry’s ability to fall asleep anywhere that they all collapse into disbelieving laughter. 

 

when they’ve finished their dinner, they wander upstairs, hand and hand with each other, to the floor that the band rented out for themselves and their families. things feel better. louis feels more even, feels like he has his emotions straightened out to the point where he can deal with them and deal with taylor. he doesn’t expect things to be any easier, but they feel lighter where they are nestled in his chest. their mums kiss them before letting them go, something significant and sad in their eyes. louis doesn’t want to linger, selfishly. it will be hard. this night, these precious last few hours, feel like the last time he will get harry to himself for a long time. 

 

as soon as the door to their suite is closed behind them, harry gets an arm against the door, boxing louis in against the worn white wood. louis shivers at the familiar weight of him. 

 

“i’ve been thinking,” harry murmurs, their foreheads pressed together. louis nuzzles forward, “we could turn the extra room upstairs into a studio.” 

 

louis smiles, easy as anything, “yeah?” 

 

“yeah,” turning his head to the side brings harry’s lips into contact with his cheeks, with the salty places under his eyes, “could do. it’d be beautiful, i think, with all of the natural light and the--”

 

“the built-ins would be good for your paints,” there are hands moving down to cover louis’ hips. he relaxes into the warmth, into the familiarity of this. it is not a happy thing, but he has grown used to kissing harry behind closed doors and keeping quiet, feeling out the give of harry’s waist in dark places and in-between places. this harry, his harry, the boy he thinks he was born half in love with is more solid than he has been in days. instead of thinking about it, louis arches into harry’s body, into his slick mouth. 

 

they kiss, just once, before harry is gentling louis across the room and into bed. 

 

** 

 

“how do i look?” 

 

louis lifts his eyes from the book he’s been reading while refusing to get out of bed. he knows it’s childish to stall what they have to do. lou’s eyes had told him that: her wide, watery gaze, the sadness in the curve of her mouth. doing this, making them wait for him, makes louis feel more in control, as naive as that is. he settles the book against the side table before turning to harry. 

 

standing at the foot of their bed, harry is dressed in almost head to toe blue. pigeon-toed, shaggy haired, tired eyed, harry looks like he does when they’re home in holmes chapel, when they’ve got time, when louis has spent hours with his hands in harry’s curls, connected at the mouth. it is easy to imagine himself in that moment. 

 

louis sits up. his brain feels caught:  _ my boy in blue, my boy in blue, my boy in blue. _ his chuckle comes out sad sounding, “subtle.” 

 

harry shrugs, a little, jaunty thing, “don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.” 

 

caught between being frozen and feeling something set alight in his chest, louis throws off the covers and crawls to the end of the bed. louis feels clumsy and off kilter; unaccustomed to being so jetlagged and feeling so much at the same time. his bare knees scuffle against the sheets, his arms outstretched for harry before he’s close enough. they come together at the end of the bed. harry’s hands find the dip of his waist, where caroline is always clothes-pinning his shirts, while louis reaches up to the strings of the blue hoodie that harry has on. 

 

“what is the wrong idea?” louis asks. he feels paper thin. 

 

gentle fingers lift his chin, “that ‘m with anyone but you.” 

 

louis doesn’t say anything. the reality of seeing harry actively pretending to be with someone else has begun to sink into the spaces between louis’ chest, and he isn’t quite sure what to do with that phantom pain. he wishes that his mum was here, that she was waiting outside the door for the moment that harry leaves. louis lets harry look at his face. 

 

“kitten,” louis’ eyes close against the pet name in harry’s rough voice, “what’re you thinkin’?” 

 

eyes still closed, louis whispers, “you look like you’re mine.” 

 

harry’s inhale hitches beneath louis’ fingers. 

 

“you look like you’re my boy.” 

 

they say goodbye in the grey new york light coming in through their windows. nothing eases the ache in louis’ chest: not harry’s kisses, not harry’s big hands on his waist, not the tiny, dark  _ l _ louis draws over harry’s heart. 

 

** 

 

the boys are better than what louis deserves. even though they’re all embroiled in their own bullshit stunts, the whatsapp conversation they share is blinking with new messages all day: some small things, some bigger things, a selfie of liam with a dog that looks alarmingly like loki, a picture of lux with her hand curled around the stem of a leaf and her proud, toothless smile. nothing fills the hole in his chest where he worries for harry, but it is better to be distracted. 

 

he’s papped with eleanor during the day. they go shopping and go to central park, before harry and taylor get there, and are on their way back to the hotel before louis has to face the sudden reality of it. the fans are unbelievable. there are so many, and they are everywhere. even eleanor gets asked for a picture. louis doesn’t quite have the words to describe to paul how thankful he is when they get up to their floor, and paul’s just  _ there _ , big hands up at his waist as he paces; instead, louis allows himself to be pulled into a gruff hug and allows paul’s wife to look at him. she’s radiant and sweet, exactly the kind of person who can even out paul’s anxious energy. 

 

“alright?” 

 

behind her, a hand on her hip, paul says, “any word from anyone else?”    
  


sometimes, especially when everything feels horrible, it feels like the six of them go into lockdown against the entire world, against anyone who hasn’t been along for the entire thing. louis shrugs, “just the whatsapp.” 

 

despite himself, paul smiles softly, “‘m glad you lot’ve got each other.” 

 

louis nods. everything is silent: everyone besides niall is gone, and niall is probably trying to navigate a careful breakfast with his da and brother. louis can’t stop himself from bringing a hand up to his mouth, his nails coming off cleanly when he worries at them. eleanor has retreated down the hall, tugging her boots off while she leans against the wall, and sending a small wave his way before she disappears into her room. 

 

“anything from harry?” paul’s voice is cautious. 

 

louis shakes his head, “probably not allowed to be on his phone while he’s with her.” 

 

before paul has time to look at him with big, sad eyes, perrie and zayn come out of the elevator, laden down with shopping bags. a feeling that is part guilt and part relief blooms in louis’ chest. he hasn’t seen perrie in too long, because she’s been busy with little mix, and he’s been busy here. she looks beautiful and vibrant, her purple hair curled carefully around her shoulders. she drops all of the bags she has in her hands when she sees him. 

 

“lou,” perrie teeters down the hall in her boots before encircling his shoulders with her slim arms. she’s warm and familiar: the bony knobs of her shoulder blades against the softness of her cheek and her breasts, the ladder of her collarbones, “how’re you doing?” perrie smells faintly of burberry and smoke, likely from zayn. zayn is making his way down the hallway more slowly after being stopped by paul. 

 

“‘m alright, love,” perrie feels like a younger sister to him. he remembers when he first met her, and the way she’d blushed when niall had hugged her. those people feel a long way away, “how’re you?” 

 

perrie’s smile goes lopsided, “‘m fine, y’know.”

 

louis feels like he’s surrounded in all of these layers of lies, and this is the only safe place. they all pile into the living room in his and harry’s suite to wait for everyone to trickle back in. liam slumps back into the room around mid-afternoon. they’re all dealing with things as well as they know how. regardless, liam doesn’t like lying to the fans, says that he doesn’t like to lie to people who matter to him. louis can only open his arms and cuddle liam into the spot under his chin where harry usually rests. eleanor comes in after a nap: her hair is up in a ponytail, her phone clutched in one of her hands, danielle trailing sadly behind her. zayn leaves the room with a weak excuse about needing to find ant. louis sinks into the couch, drowsy. 

 

** 

minutes or hours later, louis wakes to the feeling of someone’s hand against his cheek. the touch is gentle, familiar, doesn’t startle louis into waking any sooner than he wants to. bleary-eyed and exhausted, louis curls into the warmth of the body beside his. he doesn’t want to go to elf with everyone, doesn’t want to have another huge orchestrated stunt, doesn’t want to leave the hotel room that he’s sharing with harry. 

 

louis is worried that he will open his eyes to nothingness. harry can promise not to disappear as many times as he wants, and he can mean it every time, but nothing can stop whatever switch inside of him goes off when things get tense. it feels like there’s a rock in louis’ stomach. he can’t do this alone. he doesn’t  _ want  _ to do this alone. 

 

“kitten.” 

 

louis knows that voice, is familiar with that tone and the way that harry’s eyes crinkle in the middle when he says it. the touches to his cheek have moved down to the nape of his neck and the arch of his spine, the warm center of his back. 

 

“lou,” harry’s lips move against his ear, “are you gonna wake up?”    
  


blindly, seeking out harry’s mouth, louis turns his head, “no,” he whispers. 

 

their lips touch once and again, mere brushes of slick skin. louis relaxes into the knowledge that harry still tastes the same, that this thing hasn’t altered the careful way he holds louis’ body, the way his forehead feels when he leans it against louis’. for another moment, louis allows himself to lie there, trapped between knowing and not knowing.

 

counting to three, terrified, louis opens his eyes. 

 

harry’s eyelashes dip down to his cheeks when he smiles. 

 

in the darkened room, louis wraps his arms as tightly as he can around the broadness of harry’s shoulders. there are a thousand emotions flitting through him, but he tries not to think about them, tries not to worry that this is the first day, and he already feels off kilter. harry holds him just as tightly. he’s got a hand cradled around the sleep-warm nape of louis’ neck and an arm around his back, cuddling him up into his chest.

 

when louis has begun to breathe more evenly, he whispers, “i missed you.” 

 

harry’s fingers dip under his shirt, “missed you too, lou.” 

 

**

 

foolishly, louis doesn’t expect the pictures to make him feel as badly as they do. their stunts had felt so harmless last night: louis had his boys, harry had ed, they were texting all night, and they crawled into bed after a shower where they spent most of the time attached at the lips. their mums even got to spend some time together after ben turned off his intrusive cameras. 

 

now, out on the terrace, the night sky still blanketing new york, louis doesn’t know what he was thinking. taylor is the epitome of every worried, inadequate thought louis has ever had. she's effortless next to harry: blond and blue-eyed, the cheerleader to harry’s longer, curly hockey hair and his rosy cheeks. they look good together, and they aren't hiding. louis can't give harry that right now. 

 

hand trembling around the cigarette he has lit, louis puts his phone down. looking at the pictures is only making him want to cause a ruckus. like, if he wakes the entire hotel, no one will hear how loud his heart sounds in his empty chest. 

 

“d’you want to know the worst part?” a raspy voice asks from the doorway. 

 

louis wants to hear about how much harry missed him, wants to hear about all the times he wished that louis was there so he could draw him in and kiss his forehead, wants to hear about all of the stupid jokes he couldn’t tell taylor because she wouldn’t like them. louis doesn’t ask for any of those things. he makes a noncommittal sound around the cigarette that he’s got between his lips. it’s too early to feel this raw. 

 

“she doesn’t smell like you,” harry’s laugh is sleep-softened around the edges, “i wasn’t-- like. i kinda thought that would be the least of my worries, yeah? but she just--” 

 

mouth trembling, louis turns around. 

 

harry is scuffing his bare foot against the ground. he’s pulled up a pair of sweatpants over the ridges of his hipbones, and he’s lovely and sleepy, a hand tugging at his lower lip, anxiously pulling a hand back through his hair. 

 

“she doesn’t smell like you,” harry’s eyes have always been too honest, “and it felt like-- like, we were being hunted by paps or something. i hate that.” 

 

it’s part of the bargain they made when they got “famous”: privacy and decency vanished. louis wonders, sometimes, what it will feel like when their relationship is finally public. he doesn’t like having to actively  _ hide  _ it but being able to be honest about it would be more than he’d dared to hope for. grey smoke drifting out of his mouth and into the thick new york air, louis says,“what do i smell like?” 

 

they should be asleep right now, curled up safe and worrying about madison square garden. instead, louis’ brain is going a hundred miles a minute, frantically turning over the details of their life in holmes chapel to see if there are fissures he hasn’t noticed. 

 

harry’s lips tilt into an indulgent smile, “right now?” 

 

louis can’t help but smile, “don’t be--” 

 

“you smell like yorkshire tea,” harry says quietly, “and the laundry detergent you  _ have  _ to have, and my cologne,” he’s looking at his own hands now, “when you’ve been away, you smell like the inside of rental cars and cigarettes and airport.” 

 

cigarette bud falling to the floor, louis begins to walk towards harry. 

 

“when i fuck you,” voice gone softer and warmer, harry keeps talking, “you smell like me, but you always taste sweet? like, right in the crease of your thighs, and your co--” 

 

louis reaches out for harry’s soft hips. 

 

“you smell like the boy i’ve loved since i was sixteen,” big, big hands come to cradle louis’ cheeks. he closes his eyes, helplessly, mind quieting at the physical proof that harry still wants him, “when we’re in america, my clothes always smell like my suitcase, and my toiletries smell like my cologne, but you--” a kiss is pressed to the center of louis’ forehead, “you smell like our  _ home.”  _

 

“i don't like this,” louis’ lips barely move around the filler words he has chosen for all of the ones he doesn't feel strong enough to say, “i wish--” embarrassingly, louis’ voice cracks. 

 

harry says that he doesn't like to play make believe or entertain what ifs. they're caught in it now, playing a game that older, more skilled players are so much better at than they are. what leverage do they have against someone who has literally everything? against someone who's own closet is so ironclad people don't dare talk about it? new york isn't the right place to do this, but louis feels reckless and desperate and alone even with harry’s patient thumbs moving across his cheeks. 

 

“i wish we were home,” louis tries again. his voice is hoarse with unspent tears, “i wish we could just go away from here, and--” 

 

“and what?” harry’s breath is ghosting across his cheeks, his lips moving against louis’ forehead, “we can't just leave the boys.” 

 

louis knows full well that he's being unreasonable when he says, “niall could go onstage for all of us.” 

 

against his hips, harry’s fingers tighten, and he huffs out a fond laugh, “niall would have way too much fun. can you imagine? he'd spend an hour and a half singing the irish national anthem!” 

 

“he’d find time for danny boy too,” louis tilts his forehead against harry’s shoulder. 

 

golden lights dancing off of his pale skin, harry continues to stroke up and down louis’ back. the rhythm is nice to focus on, and louis catches himself drifting off still standing. they are not untouchable. his golden boy is not only his when they are working. somehow, soon, louis has to rectify the private version of harry he has loved for so long with this public, bright version who is masculine and straight and besotted with taylor swift. 

 

“my donny boy,” harry breathes into his hair. he’s matching danny boy’s pitch and melody, “our bed, our bed is calling.” 

 

louis snuffles against the warm place between his pecs. he feels endlessly, endlessly fond. 

 

“from dusk to dawn, and for fun sexy times,” they crack up together, bodies pressed close, “the morning’s here, and you’re gonna be tired for ma-- no, fuck, that doesn’t--” 

 

louis kisses the place over his heart. he feels so full up with the love he feels for harry. 

 

they traipse back to bed together. louis curls up alongside harry’s flank. a wide, possessive hand sweeps across his hip, over and over. they breathe for a moment. they just breathe. louis doesn’t notice the way that harry’s right hand has disappeared against his skin. in this bed, nothing is more alive than their love, nothing is more real than the way they feel about each other. 

 

the morning is quiet. breakfast seems to go on forever: the five of them at a table with all of their parents, surrounded by their supportive mums and dads, all of the people who love them more than anything else. they laugh and their mums cry, and ben doesn’t take out his camera once. it’s incredible. 

 

nothing really begins to happen until they all hug their parents goodbye and get in an SUV bound for madison square garden, and then it all begins to feel like magic: zayn is grinning into ben’s camera, chris rock and robert de niro are wanting to meet them, they’re all huddled backstage, nervous and exhilarated. 

 

“ready?” liam’s got a manic smile on his face, part nerves, part excitement. his hand, where it’s curled around zayn’s boney hip, is shaking. 

 

niall laughs, all anxiety and happiness, “now or never, yeah?” 

 

harry is breathing in and out against his forehead. they’re huddled together, the five of them versus everything, but louis can’t focus on anything past the beautiful, slim boy leaning into his side and whispering, “‘m so glad i get to do this with you.”

 

louis turns into his neck, “i love you.”  

 

before they have time to take deep breaths, they’re out on stage. nothing can touch them here. 

 

** 

 

after the show, they frantically shower and change before running down the twisting hallways of madison square garden in search of their rides to the after party. harry is flushed red, liquid and confident as he runs after louis, hands fumbling at his waist when they turn corners. he keeps pressed close to louis’ back, mouthing at his neck when louis slows down, kissing him into walls when they get far enough away from other people that they can cling to each other in the semi darkness. 

 

harry’s hands feel like brilliant spots of light against his skin as he trips down the hallway leading to the door outside. nothing can top the way he feels in these moments: not weed, not alcohol, not the feeling of harry’s eyes unabashed against his bum when they scramble into a car. they’re both to meet their respective dates at the party venue, but the screen between them and the driver is sliding up, and harry is fumbling at louis’ hips, his lips at louis’ neck. 

 

“harry,” louis says breathlessly, his hands coming up to pull back on harry’s hair. like a doll with its strings cut, harry follows the motion of louis’ hand with his eyes closed, mouth red from kissing louis. it’s heady to get to have harry like this, “my darling.” 

 

hands flexing on louis’ hips, harry says, “kitten.” 

 

when harry’s eyes open, underneath the random flash of red and gold from streetlights, louis can do nothing but smile at him. he’s a supernova, full to bursting in between louis’ hands, expanding rapidly every second until there could be no one else in the city. 

 

“can’t wait to take you home tonight,” harry breathes, “can’t wait to kiss you, can’t wait to--”

 

louis nuzzles forward into the juncture of harry’s throat, “can’t wait either. i just--” 

 

the screen rolls down before either of them have a chance to say anything more. professional, the driver informs them that they’ve arrived and are being asked to exit and go inside seperately. louis nearly scoffs. for most of the people in that room, they’ll be more puzzled by harry and louis arriving separately than them coming in holding hands. harry’s eyes narrow momentarily before he’s smiling and thanking the driver. 

 

“see you?” harry whispers, a finger snuck under louis’ shirt. 

 

smiling, already thinking of the night ahead, louis says, “see you” firmly. 

 

the party is going crazy when louis walks in. people are clustered around the bar, flitting about the room, and near a stage that looks like it’s been set up for karaoke. louis doesn’t hate big parties, but he wishes, for a single sharp moment, that he could’ve gone home with harry. he’s scanning the room for taylor when a pair of slim, bronzed arms encircle his waist. 

 

“really good show,” eleanor beams back at him, “it was really well done, louis.” 

 

louis’ entire family is on her heels. they’re all beaming. his mum even has tears in her eyes. the hole in louis’ chest that aches for harry calms for a moment. he can’t be unhappy with his mum and dan, and the warm, tight embrace his mum immediately tucks him into. madison square garden might’ve been hard, but his mum is here, and he’s breathing in the fading scent of the detergent they use in donny and her worn, softer chanel. 

 

“‘m so bloody proud of you,” jay whispers into his ear, her fingers tightening briefly on his back, “can’t believe i’m lucky enough to be your mum.” 

 

dan is next. he wraps louis in the same kind of hug as his mum did: warm and familiar and sweet, “honored to be your stepdad, y’know?” 

 

and they don’t talk about it very often: louis has sat down with enough mugs of tea enough nights to feel done with the subject of his deadbeat “father,” but dan is something else entirely. he’s brought happiness back to louis’ mum and to the girls. louis doesn’t know if he could ever thank dan for that, doesn’t know if he could ever thank dan for coming along right when louis was beginning to think about leaving. louis swallows against the lump in his throat and clutches dan tighter. 

 

after that, half seeking a chance to dry his eyes, louis excuses himself to find a drink. getting to the bar is like wading through six feet of ocean water: people keep stopping him for hugs and congratulations, and he really just wants a drink, wants to see if he can find his boys and congratulate them. he’s nearly through the whole mess of people when a body collides with his in a hug. 

 

louis wraps his arms around the person without thinking about it. he knows everyone here and, upon inspection of the buzzed haircut, louis realizes that he’s stumbled into liam. they sway in a too-tight hug. louis wasn’t sure if he could get along with liam in the beginning. this uptight, organized, sweet, too good boy has become one of louis’ best mates. he wouldn’t’ve wanted to do this with anyone else. 

 

“alright, mate?” louis asks when liam leans back. he’s flushed: cheeks bright red, forehead scrunching with his infectious smile. louis, impulsive, wanting liam to keep smiling, presses a kiss to the center of his forehead. 

 

liam laughs, “great, mate. ‘m-- ‘m buzzing. i can’t believe it. we did it.” 

 

“now don’t go getting a big head,” louis playfully jabs at liam’s chest, “you’re the only good one left.” 

 

they’re laughing into each other’s chests when niall collapses into their side, “hey! don’t insult me head, tommo!”    
  


“nialler!” liam exclaims before bringing him into their hug. 

 

louis gratefully wraps his up. he knows that niall’s family is always a stressful experience for him: between greg’s stubborn mental illness and bobby’s stoicism and maura’s attempts at reconciliation, niall can never catch a break. he told them, when he was younger, that he had always had closer friends than actual family. now, clutching a brilliantly flushed niall, louis feels that land heavily on his chest.    
  


“can’t believe how much i love you tossers,” louis whispers, just for them. 

 

they jostle like overexcited puppies, locked in their hug amidst all of the chaos. it’s always felt a bit like that: them against everything outside of them. this party, for the first time in a long time, feels like a safe place. they don’t have to worry about people knowing their addresses or stalking their flights or waiting for them outside of venues, shouting and pitching down the street. harry’s absence, as usual, stings, but louis feels himself relax. they’ve made it through much worse. 

 

louis spends the next couple of hours nursing martinis surrounded by people who love him. shrugging off the ultra-macho image that has been forced onto him is freeing: his mannerisms feel more natural, and his hands fluttering around his face feel good. he’s comfortable, and he’s drinking, and things are okay. 

 

** 

 

there is a house somewhere. somewhere, in another life, they’re laughing under the covers, and louis is putting his cold feet on harry’s warm ankles, and harry has never left. he’s never disappeared from under louis’ hands. louis has never been pushed into a separate car than harry, and he’s never had to hold hands with someone who isn’t harry, who doesn’t have big, calloused hands and his slim, guitar players’ fingers. somewhere, they have a house with a yard, maybe, and a dog, and they’re thinking about making pizza for dinner but harry wants take away. he’s got louis against their kitchen counter, caged in, kissing down his neck, and louis relents because he likes to see harry smile.

 

here, louis is alone. he’s standing behind the stage where taylor swift is hanging off of harry, something horrible and betrayed simmering in his chest. being drunk isn’t making anything easier. here, louis is climbing onto the stage. here, like always, everyone’s eyes are on louis, and he’s butting taylor out of the way while everyone watches. here, harry is turning wide, green eyes onto him. here, ed is trying to make the situation better but everyone knows, everyone’s seen how possessive louis can be, the nail marks and bite marks he leaves. here, he’s flushed and frustrated and slurring, messy in front of everyone. 

 

here, harry is wrapping an arm around his waist and taking him off of the stage to the applause that he and ed garnered. he feels ashamed and empty, something pulsing in his chest at the embarrassment of being ducked away into a backroom, like harry’s worst kept secret. here, louis is turning back into harry’s chest and clinging to his sides, too drunk to know better. 

 

here, louis is slurring, “don’t want you to leave,” over and over again. here, louis is slurring, “love you so much, just want to go home, just wanna leave.” here, louis is slurring, “please don’t leave me, please don’t leave--” even as the door to the room closes behind himself and harry and the security guard escorting him out. here, harry is holding his flushed cheeks and making quiet, soothing sounds that are meant to calm louis down. here, harry is saying, “please get some sleep, kitten, please. i’ll be back later.” 

 

here, louis is tired and wilting and red-eyed and ashamed and cold and hurting and clutching at the gaping wound in his chest and being pushed out the door and wondering why harry isn’t here, why harry’s left him, why harry’s left him on his birthday. 

 

** 

 

louis wakes up to a cold bed and a wooly mouth. it takes him a moment of shuffling and groaning before the events of the night before come flooding back: bumping taylor out of the way, all of those martinis, the shame of being escorted out of his own party. bile, quick and acidic, rises in louis’ throat. where is harry? what if he messed things up beyond repair? what is harry doesn’t want to be with him anymore? 

 

suddenly panicked, louis jolts up in bed. where is harry? if he remembers right, they’re meant to be at an event today. louis moves the blankets off of his body before lurching to a stand. the room is empty, and no one else is making noise, and--

 

the open deck door and the smell of cigarette smoke register slowly, almost as if louis is seeing them through someone else’s eyes. he begins moving to the deck, to the fresh air spilling into their room, greedily gulping it in to counteract the feeling of the bile in his throat. 

 

louis’ heart slows at the sight of harry. he’s leant against their railing with a cigarette propped between two fingers. his asthma usually stops him from smoking, and louis nearly throws up right there at what he may have done to provoke this reaction in harry. walking across the deck feels like crossing the gallows to look out over a cliff. 

 

“you shouldn’t be smoking,” louis whispers when he’s found his voice again. 

 

harry’s laugh is entirely too hoarse, “shouldn’t be in love with you either, should i?” he doesn’t mean for it to hurt louis the way that it does. when they get into hard places, they both get stroppy and short, like if they enclose themselves in something harder no one will see through to the truth of it. there are some things that no shell, no preparation, no amount of money could prepare them for. today, in a waking new york, louis wonders why no one told them it would be this difficult. 

 

louis shrugs, “it’s been strongly advised against.” 

 

cigarette smoke pouring from his mouth, harry turns to look at him. the haze of smoke makes the bags under harry’s eyes worse, and the places where he’s worried at his lower lip have become bloody. lou will have his head over those things. 

 

“you look tired,” louis murmurs, “why aren’t you asleep?” he aches to reach out and touch, but doesn’t know how harry would respond to it. 

 

harry brings the cigarette back to his mouth, “nearly disappeared on my way out of the party last night. couldn’t sleep.” 

 

louis could come out of his skin, “ _ harry.”  _

 

harry’s eyes are bright with unshed tears when he smiles, something small and lopsided. they're so young, and louis finds himself longing for a crappy flat in rainy manchester more strongly than he ever has. harry would have pictures on the wall, a worn guitar in the corner, a snapback that he wears on the days when he can't get his hair right. louis would have a cat because he can't stand being alone, and zayn or liam or niall as a flatmate. somehow, they've ended up in the only universe where louis can say things with his mouth but not with his voice, where louis can yell until he's hoarse but no one will hear him. 

 

it is not what he needs to say, but louis whispers, “you shouldn't smoke,” because they are the only words that fit into the space between them. harry looks at him for a long time before he heads back inside. 

 

before the sun is fully up, the boys are all being shuffled to the place where the fan event is taking place. they’re all in various states of hungover and exhausted, giving all of the chaos of yesterday a wide berth as they wander from wardrobe to makeup and back like ducklings. no one mentions louis leaving the party wasted, yelling. 

 

louis tries to be thankful for that. 

 

the fan event is going amazingly right until harry excuses himself to go to the bathroom and isn’t back in five minutes, in ten minutes, in fifteen minutes. louis tries to stay calm. he engages faux cheerfully with the fan settled beside him and jostles around with the boys until paul peeks his head out of the hallway. liam elbows him, and louis crosses the room as tentatively as he ever has to the darkened entrance to the bathrooms. paul looks at him sadly.  

 

“we can’t find him.” 

 

louis cognizantly  _ knows  _ what that means. his heart still batters around in his chest as he casts a last, longing look back to the event before shuffling into the bathroom. tan walls give way to the wide, trough like sink and the stalls. louis looks around for the usual signs of harry: something closed, something rippling, something creaking, anything to give away his position. louis should’ve known that something like this was going to happen after this morning. he should’ve watched harry for signs of it, should’ve recognized how he gets.  

 

anne’s words bounce around inside of his head:  _ he always comes back.  _

 

when louis has been listening to the echo of his own breathing for so long that his ears are imagining sounds, he whispers, “come back to me.” 

 

nothing happens. 

 

louis waits for a few more moments. hands trembling along the edge of his shirt, looking at the scuffs on his shoes, louis says, “ _ please”  _ in a voice that is too raw. they can’t spend the next hour in here. there’s no way to explain this to people. 

 

“harry,” louis chides. 

 

there’s a creak from the far end of the bathroom. 

 

louis focuses down on his feet. he still feels ashamed of what happened at the after party, and he still isn’t sure where he is with harry, where their relationship is. it feels like an open sore that louis can’t stop picking at. voice wavering, louis continues, “my darling boy, where are you?” 

 

the panic is beginning to crest in louis’ chest when a shuffling sound comes from the other end of the bathroom again. this time, he can’t resist turning his head to the sound. harry is fading back in, from the tips of his toes to the top of his head, slowly becoming solid. he’s breathing so quickly that louis crosses his arms across his own chest. their panic has always fed into each other’s. 

 

“are you alright?” comes harry’s voice from the other side of the bathroom. 

 

louis brings his hands up to his face to cover the trembling of his mouth and the tears making their way down his cheeks. they absolutely do not have time to do this right now, but louis whispers, “d’you still love me?” in the smallest voice he has ever used around harry. the past week is a stone in the pit of his stomach. 

 

“kitten,” warm, coaxing hands cover louis’. harry feels like coming home, like crawling back into their bed in holmes chapel, like a potentially soft landing after the constant drama surrounding them. louis still can’t bear to look at him. what if harry is disgusted by him? what if he sees how desperately sad louis has finally admitted that he is? what if he doesn’t want this fragile, sad person? “my kitten,” harry’s lips move against the backs of his hands, pressing kisses to the joints of his fingers, “my love.” 

 

allowing himself to be taken care of is still a new thing for louis; he is so used to being the older brother, the strength for his mum. now, in this bathroom, he lets himself fall into harry’s warm embrace. 

 

“my sweetest boy,” is nuzzled into the space near louis’ ear as he nestles into the center of harry’s chest to listen to his heart, “‘m never gonna stop loving you.” 

 

louis inhales shakily, his eyes still closed. 

 

“especially not over something as hard as this.” 

 

when louis opens his eyes, a pair of tired green eyes are looking at him. he doesn't feel brave enough to say it, but he needs to know. they've talked about marriage. 

 

“are you--”

 

harry’s kiss is so soft that louis thinks he may have dreamt it. 

 

“let's run away,” harry breathes into the place between their lips. 

 

straining for harry’s plush mouth, tangling his fingers in the curls matted at the nape of harry’s neck, louis whispers, “where?”

 

“don't care,” harry’s warm palms against louis’ skin make him shudder. nothing feels as good or as right as this, “anywhere but here.” 

 

louis whispers, “just us?” 

 

“mmhm,” a sweet kiss is smudged to louis’ forehead and the tip of his nose, “gonna kiss you every hour and hold your hand over the console and sleep in every day and--” 

 

“bring your hipster camera with?” 

 

harry’s cheeks go rosy, “bring my camera with to take pictures of you in our bed,” another kiss to louis’ thin lips, “and on my cock--” 

 

“harry? louis?” paul’s voice makes them jump apart. louis hates the part of himself that will probably never not start at the sound of someone else’s voice. “are you alright?” it is paul’s subtle way of asking if they're ready to go back out, if they have their clothes on. 

 

harry looks at him. louis tries a smile for what feels like the first time in a week. 

 

“we’re good.” 

 

**

 

that night, as much as louis hates it, as much as louis wants to keep kissing harry until they disappear into each other, harry is meant to be seen going into taylor’s hotel. they don't want to let go of each other. louis makes a shivery, lost sound when harry lets go of the places he had louis’ legs hitched around his back. harry soothes him with a wide palm on the center of his spine and an  _ i’ll be back before you know ‘m gone  _ slurred with exhaustion. louis only twines his fingers more tightly in harry’s hair. 

 

“what if you just stayed here?” 

 

harry touches at the warm, bare cleft of louis’ arse, “after all of this, ‘m gonna find us a place where no one'll know us, and then we're gonna stay there until no one remembers our names anymore.” louis hears the  _ and where i don't have to keep leaving you  _ that harry doesn't say. they're careful with louis’ dad as a topic of conversation, but harry still knows how terrified louis is of memorizing the shape of someone’s shoulders as they leave. 

 

louis shivers, tracing an  _ l  _ over the strong pulse of harry’s heart, “what're we gonna do?” 

 

“‘m just gonna love you,” harry shrugs, so unabashed and open, “‘m just gonna spend a week loving you.” 

 

**

the next day, with eleanor and taylor both leaving the city, is quiet. they all head to different parts of new york to film for their homemade music video. these are the parts of being famous that louis likes: making things for the fans, making the fans smile. he is happy to be able to focus on that to avoid worrying about harry.

 

when it finally comes time, climbing into bed with harry feels foreign. the last two nights have been spent between sleep and wakefulness, a storm brewing somewhere around louis’ heart, his mind running feverishly. this sleepy, pale boy kneeing into the bed beside him doesn’t change any of that. the bright, hot shame burning in his belly has not changed, the unsure, tremulous way their relationship has been sitting in louis’ chest hasn’t changed. louis isn’t sure he can still fit his tired body into the same bed as harry’s. he’s thumbing absently at the pillow he’s been using, getting ready to give it back to harry, when a hand finds the dip of his waist beneath the threadbare white shirt he’s wearing.

 

“lou,” harry’s voice sounds mullish. the frustrated, childish voice he uses when he’s tired, and he doesn’t want to fight.

 

for a brief, lonely moment, louis contemplates leaving the room entirely, just to teach harry about loss, about watching someone walk away with your heart. when the hurt has curdled in his chest, louis turns to look at harry: at his tired, sad eyes and the stubborn tilt to his mouth. he’s the most familiar thing about new york city. somehow, he’s become the least familiar thing about it. there is never enough time for them to figure out the last hurt before they’re on to the next, pretending that everything is okay because they’re young and in love and, in any other story, that would be enough.

 

louis allows himself to settle against the bed: his cheek against his pillow, his eyes closed. it never gets easier to feel out the shape of the words in his throat, and he feels like all he can do is try to cover up all of his soft parts with a blanket so nothing can hurt them, “i wanted--”

 

harry’s fingers move against his back in a rubbing motion that is meant to be soothing.

 

“i just wanted someone to know,” louis whispers. he thinks about how this is the biggest moment of their career and how unfair it is that he has to pretend to be in love with eleanor while harry pretends to be with taylor swift, “i’m tired of just being your secret,” louis’ voice gives out around that statement, “i don’t want to hide.” something a lot like shame twists in his tummy. he’s fought so hard against saying that, and he’s fought so hard against resenting the machinery around them, the machinery that has propelled them so far.  

 

“you’re not my secret,” harry’s big hand has stilled on his back, “you’re the person i want to spend the rest of my life with, and that--”

 

“you pushed me away.”

 

one moment, louis is staring at the rapid up and down of harry’s chest with his breathing. the next, he’s staring straight through harry’s heart, seeing the white bedsheets behind him, the wrinkles that his back make when he glances down. louis feels like he’s been holding onto the weight of harry not wanting him for two days while they went on acting like things were normal. now, with it out in the open, things were supposed to feel better. instead, louis is staring at the open wound of harry’s heart.

 

“i didn’t push you away,” harry says fiercely. his hand on louis’ back has clenched into a fist.

 

louis can’t bear to look at him, “you did.”

 

they’re together on the bed, and, somehow, they’re disappearing at the same time. louis thinks that he could sink into these sheets and never leave them, that he could leave behind the boys and the band and the screaming fans.

 

“i didn’t want you to feel like people were watching you,” harry murmurs into the crown of his hair. he’s so close to louis, against his arm and his leg and his back.

 

louis doesn’t say  _ i wanted them to watch, i wanted them to see me make a scene for our love,  _ because those words do not sit right in his throat.

 

harry keeps talking, a hand securing around the dewy nape of louis’ neck, “i just wanted you to feel safe, and-- and we just needed some space to be us without,” harry breathes out, low and uneven, “being “famous” doesn’t mean we owe them anything.”

 

harry’s got a stretched out old tee shirt on. it is going worn around the neck and across the new, broader pull of his shoulders. louis wants to put his mouth on the junction of harry’s throat. harry puts on new clothes after they work before he isn’t that person, he says. he isn’t that person all of the time.

 

“i  _ know  _ we aren’t allowed to be out and-- and  _ in love _ everywhere, but,” harry’s shrug jostles them against the sheets, “i just needed to be somewhere where i could love you, and it wasn’t a big orchestrated-- like, fuck you, simon, or something.”

 

louis  _ loves  _ this boy.

 

“i just needed to make sure you were alright,” harry finally settles on, “maybe i was being selfish but--”

 

“c’mere,” louis whispers. he’s wiggling out from harry’s warm limbs until he’s reclined against a pillow, his legs open for harry, the perfect place for his broad boy, “c’mere.”

 

harry comes forward into his body like a wave cresting and breaking: something so rushed and then, finally, something so soothing about the sure, familiar touch of his hands over louis’ hips. his hands leave louis breathless and dazed, straining for the plush part of his lips. nothing is as satisfying as the tightening of harry’s grip when louis nips at his lower lip.

 

“you don’t know how to be selfish,” louis whispers, trailing his hands down harry’s risen shoulder blades. under his shirt, warm from their bed and the heat in their room, harry’s skin is nearly otherworldly. louis could touch harry for hours, could touch him until the world ended.

 

harry butts their foreheads together coaxingly, “do so.”

 

“do not,” but louis’ mouth is pulling into a grin, “prove it.”

 

there's a couch in their living room in holmes chapel that harry pitches himself on when he's having a strop. that same huffy, stubborn boy is trying to wiggle his hands under louis’ sweatpants to the place where his hips dent in. they like to rile each other up, and the air between them loosens as they relax into something they know. louis’ body goes liquid in the sheets: he's got his hands tangled up in harry’s hair as his hips erupts into goosebumps.

 

calloused fingers on his bum, harry whispers, “wanna take care of you,” into louis’ ear.

 

louis faux gasps as fingers work down to the clench of his hole, “is that you being selfish?”

 

harry laughs against louis’ neck. his teeth leave louis’ skin when he says, “‘s me being honest.” 

 

“tell me more, tell me more,” louis whispers into the wispy curls over harry’s ear. he feels powerful, knowing that he can make harry shiver just by pulling on his hair the right way, just by knowing how to flex his bum. it’s difficult to remember how young they are, in these moments. louis can’t imagine he’ll feel any differently about harry in twenty or thirty years, can’t imagine ever making love to harry any differently. in these moments, louis can’t imagine giving up on their love. fingers tightening in harry’s hair, he whispers, “did you get very far?” 

 

harry’s smile burns against louis’ skin as he begins to make his way down louis’ body. there is a different, intenser version of harry that only exists on stage and in their bed, when he’s determined to take care of louis. here, now, warm, careful hands slide louis’ sweatpants down, down, down until they’re slipping past his ankles and off of his body, leaving his stomach bare. louis’ always liked this part. harry thinks he has the upper hand, with his big hands on louis’ thighs, but louis presses a hand under his shirt and over the rosebud peaks of his nipples, and harry’s eyes narrow in concentration. 

 

lips lower to the inside of louis’ thigh: just by his knee, the tender, ticklish skin that makes louis shiver and arch his back until his pelvis threatens to press through his stomach. louis loses himself to this. the almost pleading way that harry marks up his inner thighs, so thorough and slow. first, lips and suction, then teeth and heat and  _ clenching  _ against the ache of emptiness. the just barely friction of harry’s hair against his leaking cock and the sweet smile harry wears when he finally lies down on the bed. the frantic noise that louis makes when harry closes his lips over one of his balls. 

 

the timid boy who’d never touched an uncircumsized cock does not exist anymore. now, in his place, is a boy who makes louis rock against the bed and whine too loudly, a boy who presses a lube slick finger into louis’ hole while he sucks a red bruise into the firm round of louis’ arse, a boy who spanks him lightly just to feel the way louis’ entire body seizes up around the pleasure-pain. 

 

harry fingers louis until he can’t remember where they are or why he was worried before, and when he’s got three fingers curled up in louis’ tight body, he flips him over, careful and commanding, exactly the way that louis wants to be handled against the bed. it’s so hard to do anything but brush his mouth against the pillow and whimper when harry pulls his fingers out to slick up his cock. 

 

“shhh,” harry gentles a hand against louis’ side, “sh, ‘m gonna give you what you want.” 

 

“please,” louis arches his back: arse up like an invitation, mouth wet against the pillow as he pants. he’s not worried about getting what he wants. he’s worried about harry leaving him in this bed, wanting and wound so tight, to go perform some ridiculous stunt with someone who has no place in their relationship. louis’ voice breaks when he pleads, “love you, want you, please.” 

 

“you’re so beautiful,” harry whispers, nudging the head of his cock into louis’ hole, lining their entire bodies up, “my kitten. my sweetest love.” 

 

they fuck like the world is ending and like entire universes are unspooling in the spaces between them. hard and slow, fast and shallow, louis caught up in the feeling, caught up in the feeling of harry biting into his neck when he finally comes, caught up in the feeling of being eaten out until he’s crying and the surprise in harry’s voice when he says, “baby boy. you can come, y’know that.” 

 

** 

 

hiding in zayn and ant’s room, like a tableau of grief, will not last forever. for now, with the tattooer and the silence of everyone doing their own things, they are safe from the outside world. louis feels guilty thinking it, but he’s a little bit happy that all of their families have left. things feel normaler this way: they’re just in new york for some interviews and some gigs. eleanor and perrie are gone, and liam ate breakfast this morning. they’re going to be okay. 

 

zayn hisses a sharp breath in through his teeth which makes niall nearly knock over the bottle of nail polish balanced on his skinny thigh. 

 

“oy!” niall exclaims, wielding a brush covered in faint pink polish in zayn’s general direction, “give me some warning next time!”    
  


they settle back into contented silence for a few minutes before liam is rising from the floor to begin pacing back and forth across the room. niall goes back to harry’s nails with a concentration that turns his lips down, and liam begins to hum the drake song he's been fixated on again. things feel good for this brief moment amidst the chaos. 

 

the good feeling carries into their rehearsals and taping. louis snags one of harry’s sweaters to wear. they don't talk about it, but it shows in how relaxed harry is, in how they don't rise to any of the questions specifically designed to bait them. it restores a little bit of louis’ dwindling faith in adults in the entertainment industry. maybe they don't all want to watch the boys fail. 

 

rehearsal feels as familiar as sitting on a couch, by now. they mess about, mess up the lyrics, and muck around on stage while paul watches with a smile on his face. he knows they need this. 

 

somehow, after tattoos and rehearsal and letterman, harry is still expected to put in an appearance at a birthday party for one of taylor’s friends. louis’ doesn’t bother fighting with anyone over how unfair that is. he just tries to not fuss over harry. it is harder, always, when he's pulling on his skinny jeans over his invisible legs with nails that are just barely pink. louis wants to climb out of the bathtub and will harry to stay with the sway of his hips, the coaxing of his hands. 

 

he doesn't do any of those things. 

 

tracing shapes through the bubbles in the tub is the only way to distract himself from harry’s ritual of getting ready. it feels like time is slipping through his fingers; they just reconciled, and now they are on to the next hurt, the next few days of separation and sadness in the name of their career. louis just wanted to spend this night together. feeling the same bottomless sadness that's been following him around like a shadow, louis leans forward for his washcloth and the soap that harry loves from the organic soap shop in london. 

 

louis washes himself slowly. there are knots twisted up in his shoulders and the radiating, deadening weight of exhaustion settled somewhere around his lower back. if he were stronger or smarter or a better businessman or--

 

a finger curled under his chin makes louis look up. 

 

“you're so beautiful,” harry murmurs, moving wet hair off of louis’ forehead, “never seen a more beautiful boy.” 

 

louis flushes under the attention. when they're home, they have these quiet moments daily, these moments when it seems ridiculous that they should ever be with anyone else. a glowing warmth begins to unspool in louis’ chest. 

 

“never gonna want anyone else,” harry strokes the sharp jut of louis’ cheek before settling his thumb against louis’ lower lip, “can't wait to make you mine forever.” 

 

the small  _ l  _ that louis drew over harry’s heart is still there in dark ink. 

 

“‘m already yours,” louis reaches up to clutch at harry’s wrist, the tiny black  _ h  _ that harry drew on his wrist contorting with his motions, “don't need a piece of paper to tell me that.” 

 

“i think i’d like one,” harry says nearly silently, “like, erm--” 

 

louis is reminded so painfully of the young boy who blushed the first time louis gave him a blow job, the young boy who apologized for walking in on louis in the shower even after they were together. he rises out of the water, sending it sluicing back into the tub, for harry’s mouth. even though his skin is dewy and too warm, harry cradles his hips, can't resist a cheeky grope of his bum. 

 

smiling against harry’s mouth, louis says, “i thought so.” 

 

harry is going red along the apples of his cheeks, “why?” 

 

louis trails a hand down harry’s chest to rest over his skipping heart, “because you get hard whenever i start talking about marriage.” in all honesty, louis loves this part of harry, just as he loves all of the other parts of harry, “and babies,” but making harry squirm will never not be fun. 

 

even with the mulish tilt to his mouth, harry’s smile feels like a beacon against louis’ neck, “that was one time.” 

 

the warmth of the bathroom has made harry feel sleepy and heavy in his arms. louis wishes, again and again, as he presses kisses to harry’s temple and cheek before sinking back into the water, that they could stay like this tonight. that they could spend their last night together. thinking back over the entire week makes louis’ chest squeeze. he can't. 

 

with fingers that shake, he takes the nail polish remover from harry’s big hand and sets to work. there is something soothing about the rhythmic motion, something soothing about harry curling his big fingers back around louis’ wrist to feel out his pulse. the entire bathroom could disappear, and louis wouldn't know the difference.

 

“there,” louis whispers when the last nail is clean of the faintly shimmery polish. 

 

harry’s hand comes up to his cheek, “love you.” 

 

louis’ eyes close. he knows. he knows that harry loves him. he just forgets sometimes amidst all of the noise. 

 

**

 

louis goes belly up for love. louis goes belly up for the white moon against harry’s tired face and the stilted way he makes love when he isn’t entirely visible. louis goes belly up for the way that harry’s biceps bulge because he’s tired, because he wants to get louis onto his cock, because he says, “don’t wanna make love if i can’t see you.” louis goes belly up for their reflection in the sheets of glass that make up an entire wall of the hotel: harry’s pale against louis’ tan, harry’s sweet and slow against louis’ sleepy, harry’s big hands against the tiny curve of louis’ waist, harry’s lips against his neck. 

 

louis goes belly up for their love. 

 

** 

 

sirius xm ends up being a fun gig. they’re separated by an apologetic paul, but singing loosens up the dead weight in louis’ chest, loosens the horrible dread that has curled around his stomach, and harry is tired for a reason that only louis knows.  _ that,  _ more than anything, feels like a golden string tied around louis’ heart. they sing and they laugh and they remember why they  _ love  _ this. 

 

the jingle ball doesn’t go as well, mostly because louis can’t resist rising to the bait. “if that,” feels satisfying in the moment, but then paul is directing this sad, sorry look at him, and louis knows that he messed up. before he can dwell on it too much, they’re done, they’re being shuffled on, they’re being put on stage together. that makes all of the difference. 

 

entirely too soon, louis is being led onto a plane without harry. sirius xm and the jingle ball have left them almost no time to themselves, and louis nearly backs down the steps, back out of paul’s grip, backs out, backs out. the only thing that feels right is the lion plushie he’s got clasped in his hands. he hasn’t slept enough. he hasn’t spent enough time curled up under harry’s arm, memorizing the feeling of his strong arm. going home feels wrong if harry isn’t coming with him. 

 

“lou!” 

 

louis blinks down at the stairs leading onto their private plane. his first thought is wishful thinking, like he could will taylor swift out of the picture if he just wanted her gone hard enough, but that can’t be right, because ahead of him, liam has turned around. his big brown, sad eyes are focused on something below louis. without loosening his hold on the lion, louis turns. 

 

the tarmac is dark beyond the small circle of light their plane is sitting in, but louis can still see him. lit golden by the lights, wearing his warmest jacket, phone clenched in his right hand, harry comes stumbling up the stairs towards him. louis’ entire chest threatens to give out at the sight of his boy. 

 

“haz--” 

 

harry’s familiar touch is at the center of louis’ forehead, the tip of his nose, the pout of his lips, “i wanted to say goodbye.” 

 

louis can only hold the lion tighter. there’s something in his chest that almost doesn’t trust this, doesn’t trust harry here and  _ whole.  _ louis keeps imagining the hazy, almost invisible boy who disappeared from under his hands only a week ago and the boy who disappeared at one of their gigs and-- 

 

“stop thinking about it,” harry murmurs, hands on louis’ waist, “i promised.” 

 

numb with all of the things that he doesn’t know how to process, louis nods, “i know.” 

 

they kiss in the faintly lit stairwell, an entire plane of people getting ready to go home behind them. louis’ home is standing right here, getting ready to get on another plane, nipping at his lower lip with a smile. their big, empty house in holmes chapel is no match for this. louis drops the lion down between their feet so he can rise up and grip at the hair on the dewy nape of harry’s neck. 

 

“i’ve never loved anyone more,” harry whispers, drawing a thumb down louis’ cheek. 

 

louis blushes, “never loved  _ you  _ more.” 

 

louis’ happy, flushed boy smiles. he’s absolutely radiant, even without his paper airplane necklace, even after the week they’ve had, even without his nails painted and his hair as long as he’d like. louis makes a copy of this moment to put in his chest. the warm, comforting weight of it will have to do for now. 

 

in the stairway of their plane, about to be separated, harry’s hand on his face, they’re golden. nothing can hurt them here. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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